of the Duwamish River toward the lights of West Seattle in the distance.
“The brain itself shows no visible signs of damage, but there is quite a bit of swelling.”
“Which means?”
“Which means if the swelling continues, they’ll have to relieve the pressure by cutting a hole in her skull.”
When he looked out the window again, she asked, “Did you know her well?”
“Yeah…for a while.”
“Did she have the tattoos then?”
“Yeah.”
He knew what she was going to ask before she worked up the courage. “Why would anyone…?” she began.
“She didn’t volunteer,” Corso said. “Somebody did it to her.”
He heard her breath catch. “Oh,” she said. “She’s the one who—that guy—he doped her up and…”
Corso nodded. “Yeah. She’s the one.”
A few years back, Meg Dougherty had been a successful young photo artist. Already had a couple of hot local shows and was beginning to attract a national following, she was dating a trendy Seattle tattoo artist; guy who kinda looked like Billy Idol. They were the trendy couple. You’d see them all the time in the alternative press: big loopy smiles and sunglasses at night, that kind of thing.
Unfortunately, while she’d been developing photos, he’d been developing a cocaine habit. When she told him she wanted to break it off, he seemed to take it well. They agreed to have a farewell dinner together. She drank half a glass of wine and— bam —the lights went out. She woke up thirty-six hours later in Providence Hospital: in shock, nearly without vital signs, and tattooed from head to toe with an array of images, designs, and slogans designed to render her body permanently obscene.
She spent a month in the hospital and, over the past couple of years, had endured endless sessions of laser surgery and dermabrasion to remove the Maori swirl designs from her face and the graphic red lettering from the palms of her hands. The rest of the artwork she was pretty much resigned to living with.
Corso turned from the window and faced her. “You’ll see to it they leave her alone. That her privacy will be respected.”
“You have my word, Mr.—”
“And get her those scrubs.”
“Consider it done.”
He reached inside his overcoat and came out with a business card. His name and cell phone number. “If there’s any problem, any change in her condition…”
“I’ll personally let you know.” She glanced down at the card and furrowed her brow. She stared at the card for a long moment and then figured it out. “You’re the writer,” she said.
When she looked up, Corso was gone.
Tuesday, October 17
11:22 p.m.
M ikhail Ivanov had once read in the San Francisco Chronicle that he had killed over forty men with his own hands. He knew this to be an exaggeration. Although he had never kept count, he felt sure the actual figure would be no more than half that number.
Numbers aside, Mikhail Ivanov harbored few regrets. In his mind, he’d merely done what he did best. He had no head for business. Nico took care of that. Even as a child, Nico had had an extraordinary eye for profit. Where others saw a trickle of coins, Nico saw a torrent of cash. It was as if he had been born with an eye for advantage. As Ivanov saw it, taking care of the details had merely been his part of the business arrangement.
Of the many tasks he had performed over the years, only one left him feeling cold in the bowels. Perhaps, as Nico often suggested, he was a prude at heart. Little more than a foolish American Bible Belter. Or perhaps, as he had begun to think in recent years, some things were fundamentally against the laws of nature and, as such, had an uncanny way of connecting violators to the universal darkness of the soul.
Either way, dealing with flesh peddlers made his skin crawl. Tonight’s specimen had come not with recommendation but with a warning. They said he carried a knife and was prepared to use it at the slightest provocation. Faced with the
“The brain itself shows no visible signs of damage, but there is quite a bit of swelling.”
“Which means?”
“Which means if the swelling continues, they’ll have to relieve the pressure by cutting a hole in her skull.”
When he looked out the window again, she asked, “Did you know her well?”
“Yeah…for a while.”
“Did she have the tattoos then?”
“Yeah.”
He knew what she was going to ask before she worked up the courage. “Why would anyone…?” she began.
“She didn’t volunteer,” Corso said. “Somebody did it to her.”
He heard her breath catch. “Oh,” she said. “She’s the one who—that guy—he doped her up and…”
Corso nodded. “Yeah. She’s the one.”
A few years back, Meg Dougherty had been a successful young photo artist. Already had a couple of hot local shows and was beginning to attract a national following, she was dating a trendy Seattle tattoo artist; guy who kinda looked like Billy Idol. They were the trendy couple. You’d see them all the time in the alternative press: big loopy smiles and sunglasses at night, that kind of thing.
Unfortunately, while she’d been developing photos, he’d been developing a cocaine habit. When she told him she wanted to break it off, he seemed to take it well. They agreed to have a farewell dinner together. She drank half a glass of wine and— bam —the lights went out. She woke up thirty-six hours later in Providence Hospital: in shock, nearly without vital signs, and tattooed from head to toe with an array of images, designs, and slogans designed to render her body permanently obscene.
She spent a month in the hospital and, over the past couple of years, had endured endless sessions of laser surgery and dermabrasion to remove the Maori swirl designs from her face and the graphic red lettering from the palms of her hands. The rest of the artwork she was pretty much resigned to living with.
Corso turned from the window and faced her. “You’ll see to it they leave her alone. That her privacy will be respected.”
“You have my word, Mr.—”
“And get her those scrubs.”
“Consider it done.”
He reached inside his overcoat and came out with a business card. His name and cell phone number. “If there’s any problem, any change in her condition…”
“I’ll personally let you know.” She glanced down at the card and furrowed her brow. She stared at the card for a long moment and then figured it out. “You’re the writer,” she said.
When she looked up, Corso was gone.
Tuesday, October 17
11:22 p.m.
M ikhail Ivanov had once read in the San Francisco Chronicle that he had killed over forty men with his own hands. He knew this to be an exaggeration. Although he had never kept count, he felt sure the actual figure would be no more than half that number.
Numbers aside, Mikhail Ivanov harbored few regrets. In his mind, he’d merely done what he did best. He had no head for business. Nico took care of that. Even as a child, Nico had had an extraordinary eye for profit. Where others saw a trickle of coins, Nico saw a torrent of cash. It was as if he had been born with an eye for advantage. As Ivanov saw it, taking care of the details had merely been his part of the business arrangement.
Of the many tasks he had performed over the years, only one left him feeling cold in the bowels. Perhaps, as Nico often suggested, he was a prude at heart. Little more than a foolish American Bible Belter. Or perhaps, as he had begun to think in recent years, some things were fundamentally against the laws of nature and, as such, had an uncanny way of connecting violators to the universal darkness of the soul.
Either way, dealing with flesh peddlers made his skin crawl. Tonight’s specimen had come not with recommendation but with a warning. They said he carried a knife and was prepared to use it at the slightest provocation. Faced with the
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